


Easy Like Sunday Morning

by bearfeathers



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Angst, Capsicoul - Freeform, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, because superheroes deserve a lie-in once in a while too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-26
Updated: 2012-06-26
Packaged: 2017-11-08 14:28:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/444178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bearfeathers/pseuds/bearfeathers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrap me up in your arms; it's beautiful when time is ours and everything's a miracle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy Like Sunday Morning

**Author's Note:**

> The summary, if anyone's wondering, is actually taken from the lyrics of "Everything's a Miracle" by Swimming With Dolphins. It just sort of fit, haha. Anywho, yeah, I got bitten by the Fluff Bug and had to write this. Prepare to vomit.

Autumn is Steve’s favorite; when the air is crisp and clean, and the early morning sun fills the tower with a warm, honeyed glow. In the privacy of his room, he burrows further beneath the sheets, an arm wrapped securely around the waist of his partner. It was late—or early, technically— when he finally managed to drag Phil away from his paperwork, ushering the smaller man towards the bedroom as the first hints of sunlight began to dye the sky purple at the horizon. Though that was less than an hour ago, Phil is out cold.

Steve enjoys these moments most. Although he detests the sight of the other man injured and exhausted post-mission, he loves these quiet moments with him, when Phil is sleeping soundly, his back pressed to Steve’s chest. Mindful not to wake the other man, Steve lifts a hand, tracing the clean, white bandage around Phil’s upper arm. Were they facing each other, he would be able to see the bruise on the agent’s cheekbone and the split lip that, thankfully, was not serious enough to require stitches. Any of the injuries Steve himself had acquired are already healed, thanks to the serum. It’s always frustrating, in a way, having to watch the others slowly heal when he typically does so within the span of a few hours.

He silently thanks God that they all escaped the mission with relatively minimal injury—this time. He pulls back just enough so that he can see the jagged, white line of scar tissue at Phil’s left shoulder blade. There is a matching scar on the agent’s chest. He knows the area is sensitive to touch and, more importantly, that Phil is sensitive about them. The first time any of them caught a glimpse of them in the communal shower at S.H.I.E.L.D. had prompted the agent to leave, only returning once everyone else had gone. It’s not so much the scars themselves that bother Phil, he knows—for the agent has many others—but rather the look the others would get in their eyes when they saw them.

When Steve had brought it up, Phil had attempted to shrug it off, but Steve knew better. It still had taken well over a month for the agent to feel comfortable with Steve seeing the scars. It had taken longer still for Steve to be allowed to touch. He remembers the first time they had made love, when Phil had guided him through it until they found a rhythm. He remembers the quiet, uncharacteristically desperate noises the shorter man had made when Steve moved inside him, pressing soft kisses along the line of scar tissue.

He ghosts his fingers over the scar now before pressing his lips reverently to the spot, drawing a muffled “Steve,” from Phil, who has apparently been awoken—mostly—by the attention. He’s quick to resume his prior position, wrapping his arm tighter around his partner’s waist and kissing the junction between his shoulder and neck.

“Sorry. Just thinking.”

“It’s fine. You should sleep.”

“I know, I um… well, I just love mornings like this, with you. When it’s quiet and the sun’s just coming up and the bed’s warm…”

“Easy like Sunday morning,” Phil hums, slightly off-key.

Steve frowns. “But Phil, it’s Tuesday.”

“No, it’s… It’s just an expression. From a song. Ah… I’ll play it for you later,” Phil murmurs. “Go to sleep, Steve.”

The request is punctuated by Phil finding the arm wrapped around his waist and threading his fingers between Steve’s. The room is so silent that Steve can only hear two things: the ticking of the clock and Phil’s breathing. The silence is so heavy, it’s almost like a sound in itself. He tries to stay in the moment, to remain in the golden glow with the feeling of lying flush against the other man, because they’re rare, valuable moments meant to be treasured. If only he could capture these times, these feelings, and bottle them to be stored on a shelf for a rainy day. If only he could hold onto them forever. He wants to remember the feeling of lying in bed in the early morning with this man who he had trusted, and mourned, and respected, and eventually loved. He knows he has to live in the moment, and so he tries; Phil has more than once promised him there will be plenty more sunny mornings like this if he has anything to say about it.

Super soldier or not, he finds that (as usual) Phil is right and he still needs rest just like everyone else. It isn’t long before long the temptation to ride the easy wave of cozy semi-consciousness is too strong and he’s cast gently into slumber.


End file.
